Betrayal

Seconds later, the MiG-29 pilot also spotted the first aircraft. Their excitement at spotting the airplane is palpable. MiG-23 (to Ground Control): “It’s a small aircraft, a small aircraft!” MiG-29 (to Ground Control): “In sight, in sight!” MiG-29 (to Ground Control): “It’s white, white!” They take just a few seconds describing the small, twin engine, twin-tailed, high winged, airplane for the Ground Controllers before being given authorization to pull the trigger, with the MiG-23 pilot appearing most hopeful to shoot down the first of the planes. But it was not to be his glory. The MiG-23 was ill-suited for the mission at hand, a fact that the Cuban Air Force had learned in previous intercept attempts over the past few years. They’d seen first hand that only the MiG-29 could turn tight enough, dive steep enough and pull out quickly enough to avoid hitting the water when trying to shoot down the sort of small, low altitude targets presented by the Brothers to the Rescue Cessna 337s – unless they were caught unaware and were flying straight and level, which was exactly the situation at that moment over the Straits of Florida. The Cuban MiGs had achieved complete tactical surprise. The MiG-23 was there chiefly as a backup aircraft. As several Cuban Air Force pilots who defected to the U.S. later commented, the second plane was probably assigned to shoot down the MiG-29 if it attempted to disobey orders or fly north to defect to the United States. Judging from the tone of voice used by the pilot of the MiG-29, there was little risk of that happening. Ground Control (to MiG-29): “Authorized to destroy.” MiG-29 (to Ground Control): “I’m going to fire at it.” The MiG-29 pilot’s voice betrayed his excitement at the upcoming kill; clearly, he was enjoying the experience and was an enthusiastic participant. Ground Control (to MiG-29): “Authorized.” For a brief moment, the Cuban pilot lost sight of his target, which was the Skymaster flown by Carlos Costa – “Seagull Charlie.” However, from two miles above, the MiG-29’s sophisticated avionics quickly reacquired Costa’s Cessna. To shoot the plane down, the MiG-29 pilot selected and armed a heat-seeking missile. The sound of the “missile tone” filled the headsets of the two pilots aboard the two-seat MiG-29UB, indicating that the missile was “tracking the target.” This low growling noise could be heard clearly over the radio broadcasts as the MiG-29 pilot excitedly communicated his intentions to the Ground Controller. Less than two seconds passed from the instant the pilot pressed the button launching the ten foot long Soviet-built R-73 air-to-air missile, until it tracked straight into “Seagull Charlie’s” Cessna. The missile, a sophisticated and modern system that used infrared homing, blindsided the pilots, plowing straight in from above and behind. Carlos and Pablo never saw it coming. The explosion of the warhead certainly killed two Brothers to the Rescue volunteers instantly. It was the air-to-air equivalent of using a bazooka for duck hunting. At that instant, in a blink of the eye, the radar dot and transponder code of Seagull Charlie’s aircraft vanished from Miami Center’s and NORAD’s radars, as well as from the radar screen of the DEA’s aerostat balloon on Cudjoe Key, Florida. The last position recorded was exactly latitude 23:25.8 and longitude 82:25.6, well outside of Cuban territorial waters and in international airspace. The exact time of their death was 3:22 p.m. MiG-29 (to Ground Control): “First launch.” MiG-29 (to Ground Control): Screaming. “Conjones!! Conjones!!!” (a slang term which, in this context, roughly translates to “We blew his balls off!!”) MiG-23 (to MiG-29): (Screaming, cheering) MiG-29 (to MiG-23): “We took out his balls!” MiG-23 (to MiG-29): “Wait, wait, look and see where it fell.” MiG-29 (to MiG-23): “Mark the place where we took it out.” MiG-29 (to all on the frequency): “We are above him (the crash site). This guy is not going to fuck with us ever again.” The crude nature of the language aside, this statement from the MiG pilots demonstrates that they clearly recognized that the aircraft they were hunting were from Brothers to the Rescue. While some of the other defecting Cuban Air Force pilots had stated in the past that they knew of and surprisingly even supported the mission of the group, which they described as a humanitarian life-saving effort, this view was apparently not held by the two men aboard the MiG-29. In response to their statement, the ground controllers were extremely salutary. Ground Control (to the two men in the MiG-29): “Congratulations to both of you.” In the moments afterwards, there is repeated transmission between Ground Controllers and the MiGs until they have assuredly “marked” the spot the plane was downed. Moments later, a Cuban SAR helicopter was “authorized and taking off,” but instead of heading to the spot where the shootdown had occurred, the helicopter made a beeline for a point less than a half dozen miles off the coast by Havana – far from being a mistake, this was almost certainly the first phase of a sophisticated attempt at deception that would follow in the days and weeks afterward. At exactly the same time, completely unaware of the disaster unfolding around him, Jose Basulto was again reporting to Havana Center, speaking to the air traffic controllers. Seagull One (to Havana Center): “Warm greetings. We report to you from twelve miles from Havana and proceed on our search and rescue course to the east. It’s a beautiful day today and Havana looks just fine from up here. Cordial greetings to you and to all the people of Cuba from Brothers to the Rescue.” Havana Center, which was concurrently watching the attack on its radar screens, simply acknowledged Basulto’s message by saying, “Havana received.” The Havana Center ATC controller, Ricardo Martínez, kept silent about the attack already underway, of which he was very aware. Basulto remarked on Havana’s acknowledgement to his passengers on his in-plane intercom saying, “Before, they didn’t even say that.” It was a reference to the fact that for years, Havana Center would rarely say anything more than a curt “OK” when called over the radio. Often, they would say even less than that – transmitting what some of the Brothers to the Rescue pilots called the “grunt of approval.” Havana’s blatant and common disregard for the norms and requirements of air traffic communication were almost legendary and the regular butt of jokes within the group, yet were also a constant reminder that they were dealing with a potentially hostile neighbor. Thirty-six seconds later, as Havana Center continued to route commercial flights from United Airlines, US Airways, Cayman Air and a host of other Caribbean-bound flights both around Cuba and overhead the island, Basulto spotted a dark shadowy, swept wing aircraft streaking across the sky in the distance. The speed and shape of the dot meant only one thing to his sharp eyes – it was a Cuban MiG jet fighter. His voice is heard again through the intercom in a frightened laugh, “They throw a MiG at us?” Seven seconds after that he said, “Barbarous, they are going to shoot....” As Basulto said those words, Sylvia Iriondo pulled her rosary from her purse.